


and did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?

by elsaclack



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: AU from Season 1, F/M, Fluff, anyways this is a BLATANT rip off of a train song, i bet u can't guess which one, like please don't make me full on explain it, like.....flungst, shreds of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 21:05:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15494685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsaclack/pseuds/elsaclack
Summary: He can’t remember exactly how old he was when Halley’s Comet blazed through the sky, but he was old enough to at least understand that what he saw was, for most people, a once-in-a-lifetime experience. He remembers the blinding missile-like blur of pure light that streaked across the inky black sky, the feathery trails of starlight that followed along behind her as she tore through the galaxy, the way she flickered and winked as she disappeared beyond the horizon.And he remembers his mother telling him, in a voice he recognized even then to be warbling with reverence and emotion, how lucky he is to be among those lucky few who will get to witness Halley’s blazing trail twice in one lifetime.





	and did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?

**Author's Note:**

> [sunglasses emoji] [finger guns] pew pew pew

Jake can see the stars in Amy’s eyes better when her hair’s pulled back like that.

He can’t remember exactly how old he was when Halley’s Comet blazed through the sky, but he was old enough to at least understand that what he saw was, for most people, a once-in-a-lifetime experience. He remembers the blinding missile-like blur of pure light that streaked across the inky black sky, the feathery trails of starlight that followed along behind her as she tore through the galaxy, the way she flickered and winked as she disappeared beyond the horizon.

And he remembers his mother telling him, in a voice he recognized even then to be warbling with reverence and emotion, how lucky he is to be among those lucky few who will get to witness Halley’s blazing trail twice in one lifetime.

Amy hasn’t seen him yet, where he’s frozen with one hand on the bullpen gate. Her hair’s pulled back into that sleek ponytail she sometimes wears and her dark eyes seem to be glittering even from this distance, and the furrow to her brow is tiny and familiar in a way that makes his chest clench and ache.

Her hair’s pulled back into that sleek ponytail and it swishes with excess momentum each time she moves her head, and it’s hypnotizing, the way it catches the lights over their heads. It’s a strange thing to notice, he thinks, because he’s never noticed it before now, and he sat across from her every day for six years before today and never once did he notice the way her hair seems to exude light itself. He stares, and stares some more, trying to recall when his mouth went this dry and coming up empty.

Her hair’s pulled back into that sleek ponytail like it was the last time he saw her, and when she turns her chair away so that her back is to him he’s gone back in time, standing in the stuffy Major Crimes lobby, watching that very same ponytail swish from side to side as she strode through the glass doors after the captain. He’d stood there and watched her go, watched the brilliant shine of her hair wink and disappear, and when she was completely out of sight, he had to swallow this absurd burn in his throat. He had to blink the dryness of his eyes away, had to concentrate on the sharp pain of his nails digging into the meat of his palms to banish the feeling that it would be the last time he’d ever see her.

Her hair’s pulled back into that sleek ponytail, and her right arm is in a sling, and when she turns back in her chair to face the right way her eyes flicker up and land on him.

And though there are at least fifteen feet and nine months between them, he can see every constellation in her eyes.

“Jake,” her voice is exactly the same as he remembers it, and it’s like all the time that passed without her here hasn’t happened. She’s smiling at him, and she looks tired - and it’s so frustrating that he can still pick up on acute details like that after nine months of staring at an empty, barren desk across from his own. He feels himself swallow, feels his fingers ripple and clench against the cool brass gate.

And he feels himself smile.

“Well, well, well,” he says, drumming up his best over-confident swagger as he pushes through the gate. “Look what the Vulture dragged in.”

She rolls her eyes but her smile is equal parts exasperated and sheepish; she turns her head a degree, and the smoky tendrils of Jupiter still caught in her hair reflect boldly in the buzzing fluorescent above her. “Ha-ha,” she drawls, leaning back in her seat as he reaches his own desk. From his angle he can see the open file box on the floor at her feet, still half-full of her collection of top-of-the-line office supplies. Even in storage, they're meticulous and near-perfect. He catches sight of the shining black fountain pen he’d given to her last Christmas tucked between her tape dispenser and her three hole punch.

His chest clenches again - but his smile grows broader, brighter.

He lets the strap of his bag slip from his shoulder to hit the floor at his feet.

“Are you - I mean, um -”

“I’m back,” she interrupts, in that loud voice that always accompanies her forced bravado. She’s still smiling, but it’s tight, nowhere near her usual level of blinding. Beyond the constellations shimmering in her eyes he sees the faintest edges of a black hole beginning to ignite. His breath catches at the sight; his heart stutters in his chest at the gentle gravitational pull tugging around his naval.

Something sharp is expanding around his heart and he doesn’t know if this emotion has a name - like a cross between excitement, apprehension, confusion, indigestion.

He lets his gaze drop to her sling and arches a brow. “Cool cop story?” he points.

Her head turns to her right, chin brushing her shoulder, but her eyes never dart away from his face. “Something like that,” she murmurs with another small, tight smile.

The edges of that black hole grow a little brighter, the gravitational pull a little stronger.

* * *

She’s on desk duty for the time being, at least until her arm can heal. But it’s clear by the effervescent nebulous dancing in her aura that she’s thrilled to be back at the Nine-Nine.

He hadn't noticed before, how the precinct changed without her there. He hadn't noticed the tectonic plates shifting or the rhythm faltering. It doesn't matter now, he supposes. She's back, and all's right with the world.

Except for the little, tiny part that isn’t.

The discontent and restlessness glance off the surface of her irises in powerful, towering explosions. He catches her staring out the window more often now, chewing the inside of her cheek, lost in thought. It makes him anxious in a way he doesn’t understand - like if she stares for too long she might flit through the atmosphere and disappear again.

But then she blinks, and those solar flares are gone, and she smiles at him when she catches him staring. And she always catches him staring.

He can see the stars in her eyes when her hair's pulled back. But when her hair falls down to pool around her shoulders, he can see the ruddy red dust clouds dancing and swirling with each turn of her head.

“Y’know,” she says one afternoon, “your staring problem has gotten a lot worse since I left.”

They’re alone in the breakroom, side-by-side at the coffee station. She’s doctoring her coffee one-handed thanks to the sling, but she does not seem to be struggling in the slightest. He learned after her first day back not to offer to help her.

He smirks, keeping his eyes on his coffee mug despite his attention hinging on the constellation of freckles on her forearm. “Can you blame me?” he asks. “Just tryin’ to get a good look before you up and disappear again.”

She snorts and stirs her coffee, before raising the delicate porcelain to her lips and sipping the steaming contents. “Don’t you worry, Peralta,” she murmurs, good shoulder brushing against his back as she passes. “I’m not going anywhere yet.”

Any alarm he may be feeling dissipates thanks to the way she walks into the bullpen - like a distant monsoon rolling across a near-dark horizon.

* * *

She seems to relish in the late-night bar hang-outs with the rest of the squad more than she did before. Her joyous nebula gathers and condenses like thick fog in the dimples of her cheeks and the crinkles around her eyes. And her laughter - oh, her laughter. It was always exhilarating before, but now it's a rushing river coursing over the heads of their coworkers. It's unfiltered by her usual order of Cabernet - whatever medication she's taking for her arm doesn't allow for alcohol consumption.

She’s been back for a month now, and no one seems to know the story behind the sling.

But she’s happy. God, is she happy.

It seems to exude from her very being. Like moonlight igniting a rolling mist, swirling and storming and all-encompassing. No one is immune to it. Even Rosa falls prey, though the nearly-imperceptible twitch to the corner of her mouth is the only outward sign that she’s swept away.

“She seems different,” Gina says one night as she slides into the bar stool next to Jake’s. From here, they’re afforded the perfect view of the booth where Amy’s regaling a rather tipsy Charles. Jake raises his beer to take a swig as Charles throws his head back, his laughter rattling the floorboards. “Less uptight.”

He grunts, mouth full of beer.

“You seem different, too.” She’s still staring straight ahead, drumming her fingers against the sticky bartop.

He swallows the beer. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good different or bad different?”

She’s still watching Amy. It takes her a moment to answer. “Good,” she says as the bartender slides a fresh martini glass into her hand. It’s almost thoughtful.

He motions for another beer, wipes the condensation off his hands, and slides away from the bar.

Charles is in the middle of recounting the events of Tactical Village when Jake approaches, and though Amy remains visibly enthralled by Charles’ story, her eyes have flicked up over his shoulder to Jake. He grins, and she grins back.

And his chest clenches.

“Jake!” Charles says, as bright and happy as ever. “I was just telling Amy about your coolest kill-shot award -”

“Ah, c’mon, Boyle,” Jake says, ducking his head as he falls into the booth to Amy’s left. “It wasn’t _that_ big of a deal.”

“You _ran on the wall_ , Jake,” he says in his odd, reverent way. “And you took out four perps _while running on the freaking wall_ -”

“Charles,” Jake interrupts, face heated.

“It sounds like it was awesome,” Amy says. “I’m sad I missed it.”

The phrase is simple, but it resonates deep in his gut.

Even the way she listens is different. It’s more kinetic than it was before, he thinks. Her laughter is as abundant as the first budding greens of spring; the very essence of life itself hums millimeters beneath the surface of her skin. It grows all the more intense with each vigorous nod of her head, each pass of her sweeping gaze.

That same heat in his face remains ever-present thanks in large part to those gazes.

“So, what happened?” he finally finds the bravery to ask, pointing to her arm. “Do we get to hear the cool cop story, or is that reserved for your Major Crimes buddies?”

Charles tilts his head down, staring intently, and Amy glances between them. “‘Fraid it’s not too special,” she says, peeling at a corner of her waterlogged coaster. “I was going after a perp and I fell down a flight of stairs. Dislocated my shoulder.”

Charles hisses, a sympathetic grimace twisting the features of his face. “D’you get to take the sling off any time soon?”

“Doctor says it’ll be a few more weeks.”

“Wow, you really must’ve damaged some ligaments.”

“It was pretty painful,” she murmurs.

Charles isn’t done talking yet, but Jake’s lost the ability to comprehend his voice. He’s lost now in the darkness in her eyes, at the sudden eclipse of her starlight. She busies herself with the corner of her coaster, until the sodden cardboard has disintegrated. Her shoulders rise and her chest expands with a deep, steadying inhale.

“What actually happened to your arm?” he asks later.

It’s quieter here by the dartboards, and when her eyes flick up to his face he can see the whole expanse of the Milky Way in her gaze. She stares up at him for a long, drawn-out moment - long enough that it would have shaken his resolve before.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she finally says, and he shifts closer, lowers his head, straining to hear the gentle cadence of the crickets’ lullabye in the soft swelter of her voice.

She flashes him that tight smile again and steps back, gesturing to the dartboard with her good arm. And it’s strange, how unaffected she is. All accusations of lying and demands to know the truth die in his throat; they fall back to the pit of his belly like stones settling in a riverbed.

He doesn’t break eye-contact until after he’s thrown his dart - he’s seated it in the white, mere centimeters from the bull’s-eye.

* * *

The storm churning in his gut has taken on a foreboding greenish hue and he still can’t put a name to the roaring funnel clouds of emotion dotting the horizon. He can feel the tsunami approaching fast, but the truth is that the closer it gets, the less sure of himself he becomes.

So he falls back into his old pattern, because he isn’t sure what else to do. He jokes, he teases, he flirts.

What’s disconcerting is that now, she flirts back. She might have flirted back before, but her pride made it subtle - it’s blatant now. Uninhibited by fear or her neurotic need to be professional at all times. It’s thrilling in an unexpected way, to watch her gaze go hooded, her smiles curl into smirks, her teeth catch and nibble on her lip.

But there are other pieces to her gaze, layers beyond the bright, happy shine. He can’t identify all of them, not even if he tried, but he can’t ignore the most obvious one: regret.

And not only because it’s the one with which he has the most intimate familiarity.

She looks at him like she’s burning up inside, and it’s like fuel to the manic fire by which she’s powered these days. It confuses him - it excites him - it fills him with dread.

Frankly, it’s all just a little bit too much for him to process, so he busies himself with new cases and tells himself the flirting is harmless and ignores the rising sirens bleating just outside his window.

* * *

The southern wind, warm and refreshing, blows in on a Wednesday night.

She’s standing outside his door, worrying her lower lip, fingering the fraying strap of some old and sensible purse he’s never seen her wear before. He’s standing just on the other side of that door, hands flattened against the years-old paint, staring through the peephole with his breath caught in his chest. Her arm is still in a sling.

And her hair’s pulled back in that sleek ponytail.

He’s nervous for reasons he can’t identify when he opens the door, but that only lasts a split-second - that’s how long it takes to lose himself in her smile. He’s nervous, and then he isn’t; she’s standing on the threshold, and then she isn’t.

He trails along behind her as she steps inside his beat up little apartment, tracing her way through the galaxies between his front door and his inherited couch, and when she sits and smiles up at him, his whole apartment ignites with her starlight.

She sits down on his couch, and the whole cosmos shifts.

It’s all he can do to stumble backwards until the edge of the chair catches him behind his knees.

She sits down on his couch, and the whole cosmos shifts, and suddenly his entire life is dedicated to discovering what it takes to keep her here.

* * *

It becomes a weekly occurrence. She turns up at his doorstep - sometimes toting pizza and a movie, sometimes toting only a smile - and he lets her in. She sits down on his couch and he sits down in his chair and they pretend like it’s normal, for them to spend time together like this. They pretend like the intimacy isn’t unusual - either that, or they ignore it altogether. Jake isn’t sure which is more negligent.

It goes on like this for nearly a month and he’s no closer to identifying the now-paralyzing hurricane of emotions parked just south of where his heart beats, and then -

And then, she doesn’t come.

Minutes tick by and he finds himself unnerved, aimless, staring at his silent front door. Already his anticipation is plummeting, the pit of his gut splitting open in a bottomless maw. He forces himself to swallow, to turn his head away, and his cell phone screen is dark and void of any new notifications.

The clock on his phone says she’s fifteen minutes late. The clock on his microwave says she’s seventeen minutes late.

The clock in his car says she’s twelve minutes late.

The clock hanging on the wall in her kitchen opposite her front door says she’s twenty-three minutes late.

Her hair is down, hanging in waves that ripple around her shoulders like a low tide. There’s a little spark of surprise interrupting the mirrored surface of expectancy gleaming in her eyes. She steps backwards, left arm hidden behind the door - and his gaze catches on her right arm, hanging straight at her side.

The sling is gone.

“Is that why you didn’t come over tonight?” he asks, pointing to her arm. “Is that why you left work early?”

A faint redness blooms in the apples of her cheeks, but her gaze remains steady. “Yes.”

He waits a beat, but she doesn’t elaborate. Her hair is down, and she’s wearing a grey tank top, and a maroon hoodie over that, and beneath the right strap of her tank tap he can see the clean white edge of medical tape stark against her skin.

Slowly, he reaches forward, until the cool metal teeth of her hoodie’s zipper are burning against his palm. He eases the hoodie to the side, until it slips from her shoulder completely.

He’s afforded the perfect view of a small square patch of gauze taped down over the meat of her shoulder.

He swallows. “You didn’t dislocate your shoulder, did you?”

Her jaw moves as she bites the inside of her cheek. “I did,” she says.

It’s too calm, too even. “Did you get shot, Amy?” he murmurs.

She drops her gaze for the first time. “You should - you should come inside,” she mumbles as she steps out of his way.

Her eyes flick back up to his face, and that same regret from before is spewing through the fractures in her gaze. It paralyzes him.

But it only takes a moment of searching her expression to recognize the yearning roiling in her very veins.

The hurricane inside his chest begins to dissipate.

Her couch is more comfortable than his, and when he sits, he runs his palms over the clean fabric and curls his fingers over the defined edge of the cushion in which he sits. She forgoes the armchair across the coffee table from where he sits - she settles into the couch beside him, turned toward him, legs curled under her.

And even with the tension building in the space between them, he understands without question that she trusts him.

So he turns his body to face her, folds his hands across his lap, and waits.

“I didn’t - didn’t _lie_ about falling down the stairs and dislocating my shoulder,” she starts after a moment of gathering herself. “That really did happen, and I really was chasing a perp for a case. Except I didn’t, like, trip. I...the perp shot me.”

He tells himself that he’s expecting it, that he’s braced for it, but the moment the words leave her lips, ice surges through his veins.

She’s waiting for him to react, but he’s forgotten how to breathe. He feels the edge of the couch cushion cutting into his fingers, feels his eyes bulging, feels mouth gaping -

And then he inhales.

“Is that why you came back?” he manages to rasp.

Her answering smile is small and sad. “Yes and no,” she says, studying the hem of her shirt. “You were right, before. About being happier in the field than at a desk. I regretted leaving within the first two weeks, but I stuck with it because I thought it would look good on my resume, and the captain told me that if I did a good enough job I’d be promoted to field work. And after three months, that’s exactly what happened.”

He raises his eyebrows, but remains silent.

“It was a little better. But honestly, it still sucked. I mean, _everyone_ hates Major Crimes. I think even Major Crimes hates Major Crimes - they were constantly fighting over cases and backstabbing each other over the most stupid stuff. I tried to just keep my head down and do my work, but it was _brutal_. The deeper I got, the more I regretted leaving the Nine-Nine at all. And then…” she trails, eyes on her knees. “Then I got shot.”

She won’t look at him. She won’t look at him, and his heart is in his throat. “Amy,” he all but chokes.

“It wasn’t even that I got shot, honestly. That stuff happens - I mean, remember when Charles -” she shakes her head. “It wasn’t that I got shot. I just - when it was over, when I - when I woke up in the hospital, I...I was alone.”

His heart falls from his throat, plummets into that bottomless pit in his stomach, and over the roar he sees the muscles of her throat work against a dry swallow.

“There were doctors and nurses and stuff, of course, but no one from my team was there. Not even my captain. Not even my _family_ \- because no one from my team called them to tell them what happened. So I was alone, and...and the whole time, I just kept thinking about what it would have been like if something like that had happened while I was still at the Nine-Nine.”

He realizes only then that he’s been shaking his head. “Ames,” he breathes, “if I’d known -”

“It’s okay,” she interrupts, voice gentle, reaching across the space between them to touch his arm. The brush of her fingers across his skin is electric.

She lingers, and before she can withdraw or he can think twice, he reaches to cover her hand with his own.

Her answering smile is brilliant and blinding.

After a moment, it flickers.

“That’s why you came back?” he asks softly.

“No. I came back after I found out that while I was in the hospital, my team took my name off of all the case documentation. They stole my case. While I was alone in the hospital recovering from a gunshot. The captain didn’t do anything about it, and that was that. I went and begged Captain Holt for my job back the day after I was released from the hospital.”

Her fingers are still warm beneath his palm.

“Leaving the Nine-Nine was a mistake. I should have turned down the position. It was a mistake.”

He hears himself speak as if from very far away. “So...so why did you leave?”

He thinks that maybe some of the emotions he’s been too scared to name might be rushing in the undertow of his voice, based on the shot of empathetic pain splitting the darkness of her irises like lightning at twilight. “I’m sorry, Jake,” she whispers, and his heart throbs. “I thought - it doesn’t matter. I was wrong.”

The edges of that black hole in her eyes are blinding now, the gravitational pull all-encompassing, and the emotions he’s been running from are expanding and collapsing and twisting and writhing and above them all it’s _desire_ that makes the canyon of his chest _ache_ and _call_ for her -

“Did - did you -” he stops, inhales through his nose. “Did you miss me?”

It seems the whole expanse of the ocean glistens unshed in her eyes. “More than anything,” she whispers. “Did you - um -”

“Yes,” he croaks, the word tumbling from his lips before he’s even aware. “Yes, god, so much, _yes_.”

They collide in the middle and the sea foam sprays above their heads, wild and untamed as her fingers raking through his hair. The universe expands and contracts as his hands slide up the soft, warm expanse of her back, and it’s beyond anything he’s ever experienced, ever imagined, ever dreamed. It goes beyond the stars and planets aligning, the pure _rightness_ , and everything he’s kept compartmentalized is spilling out now, overflowing and mingling into a heady cocktail that makes his head spin. Amy’s here and she’s not going to leave again and she’s in his arms and she’s _home,_ she’s _his home,_ she’s everything his soul has yearned for since before he even knew what yearning _is_ , and it’s terrifying because it’s just one kiss but it’s exhilarating because it’s _Amy_.

They’re both breathing hard when their lips finally part, and through the stunned fog clouding her eyes he can see galaxies forming and universes exploding. She touches his face, as if curious, as if the nails running lightly through his five-o’clock shadow are gazelles stampeding through a shrub-dotted savanna. It’s chaos and stillness all at once; her slow smile is the first bloom of spring.

“I kept your recommendation letter,” she whispers, like it’s a shameful confession. He quirks a brow, and his hands are still flattened against her back, and as her face flushes he feels her fingers gently combing through the unkempt hair at the nape of his neck. “I just - I wasn’t sure how things worked, yet, and I didn’t want the Vulture to go snooping through my file just to find it and make fun of you for it, and...and I just wanted to keep it.”

She looks anxious, and it’s so endearing and familiar that even if he _was_ offended, he wouldn’t last long. “That’s okay,” he says, and a flash of pride disrupts her anxiety at her realization that his voice is hoarse. “It was meant for you, anyways.”

Questions scorch the lining of his throat but he chokes them down; her face is still red, but she’s smiling again, and the earthquake in his chest begins to settle. “You know the word recommendation only has two Ms, right?”

He manages to maintain eye contact for another three seconds before groaning and tilting his head forward to hide his face against her neck. “I knew four was overkill,” he mutters.

She laughs, bright and happy, and he closes his eyes and grins to the new soundtrack of his eternity.

 


End file.
